


Taxi Cabs and Dreamcatchers

by brerediddy



Category: Panic! at the Disco, the heart rate of a mouse
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, the heart rate of a mouse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:59:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brerediddy/pseuds/brerediddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for The Heart Rate of a Mouse trilogy by Anna Green!</p><p>Takes place a few years after the happily-ever-after in the epilogue. Ryan gets into a car accident and Brendon just wants him to open up about the bus crash in '74.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxi Cabs and Dreamcatchers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Heart Rate of a Mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/122007) by Anna Green/beggarsnotes. 



Ten minutes. I can get through ten minutes of a cab ride. After all, it's been nearly a month since I last saw him anyway. Far too long but somehow it makes the prospect of seeing him again stir something in the top of my chest. It's almost painful. God, Jon had warned me about this whole "love" thing. Just like me not to believe him. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he'd said, the bastard. Like he had any idea. Ever since he got hitched, Cassie had a pass to accompany him on any and all tours.

Granted, I maintain the same pass. But we need separate lives. As much as we dislike it, Brendon and I, it was admittedly a smart move. We would get along better if we occasionally got time away from the other. It had proven to be a wise decision, what with how often he was actually away from me. We can do a week. Maybe two, maybe not. And then when he finally comes home to me, it makes the reunion sex that much better.

That being said, ten minutes is a long time. Eternity. I know he's home. He'd called me from the airport to tell me to be ready for him when he got back. Naturally, I dropped everything and pretty much ran from Spencer's doorstep. Spencer's great, really, because all he did was offer me a slice of pizza to take on the way while smirking. I accepted it and was soon seated in this cab. So yeah, ten minutes. Give or take. I'd slipped the driver a ten and told him to go as fast as possible to which he nodded.

A few more minutes and I would be home. I would walk into our living room, a smile on my face, wrap him up in a hug. We'd share a kiss before heading to the bedroom for a marathon. We have a rule - one round for every week he'd been absent. My pulse was increasing just with the thought of it.

That car's not stopping, is it? It's probably fine. It's all the way across the street. Besides, drivers know what they're doing. It'll be fine. Only a few more minutes and I can see him - I can see him and hold him and -

Oh. Oh, fuck. It's not fine. Shit. We're clipped in the front corner of the car and suddenly we're spinning and my hands are trying to hold onto anything to balance. I feel my head hit the back of the seat in front of me and I jerk backwards, falling into my own seat once more. We've stopped spinning. We're fine. I feel dizzy, raise my hand to my forehead where there's sure to be a bruise and then when I pull it away, I see the blood. This sends me into a panic. The driver is yelling something and I hear sirens in the distance. All I can focus on is the crimson staining my trembling hands. 

All of a sudden, I'm back in '74. I blink and see crushed glass. I see Spencer, unresponsive. I hear the radio playing in the back of my mind. I know that I'm breathing too much, but 

I can't get any air. I can't breathe. The sight I have begins to fade at the edges and the last thing I'm aware of is a paramedic pulling me from the seat.

-

All in all, the accident wasn't bad. The cab got a little scraped up, the driver cursing in the most creative ways I've ever heard. The worst part of it all was my apparent "panic attack" or whatever the hell the medics had called it. I'd ended up in the back of an ambulance with oxygen covering the bottom half of my face. When I came to, I felt fine. Just a headache. Still, the crew had insisted that I needed to be taken to the hospital for observation.

"I'm fine," I say defiantly, while I try to pull the oxygen away from my face.

"We know that, Mr. Ross," speaks a pretty blonde girl. "But you could have a concussion and we need to check for more serious issues."

I just want to get home to Brendon. Surely he was expecting me, right? Someone would have to tell him what happened before he worried. Maybe I could call him from the hospital.

I end up in a white-walled room on a private floor of the place. A doctor ran a few tests, I filled out some forms. A nurse informed me later that she had notified my emergency contact - roommate, I'd told her - and that he was on his way.

Good. Brendon was on his way. I was fine, he was home. Hopefully they'd discharge me soon so that I could get a head-start on, well, getting head.

Playing with the oximeter on my index finger had proven to be far less entertaining while I waited for someone to show up. For something to happen. Hell, I'm so bored that I would welcome a heart attack just as something to do.

There's a frantic shuffling outside of my door, then, and I sit up to see who it is. When the door opens, my suspicions are confirmed. There he is, my boy, his hair a mess and stubble on his jawline. His brown eyes were focusing intently on me as he practically dove on top of my bed after shutting the door. I wrap my arms around his lean waist, smelling his scent when I tuck my lips against his neck. He radiates exhaustion and sweat and cigarettes, but also worry. As much as I don't want him to worry about me, it's nice to know that he does.

"I fucking missed you," I breathe out softly, my whisper landing somewhere along the underside of his jaw.

"I was so worried," he responds. Brendon pulls back just enough to rake his eyes over me. "You're okay, aren't you?" He catches sight of the bandage against my hairline and his brows furrow together. "Baby, are you okay?"

I resist the urge to laugh at his incessant concern, how adorable he is in that very moment. "I'm fine," I answer truthfully. "Really, I am."

He nods, swallowing before closing his eyes and resting his forehead against my own. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he warns, his tone less tense now. "I was scared out of my fucking mind."

We pull apart and Brendon takes a seat in the chair by my bedside. He keeps stealing glances at my hand, looking like he wants nothing more than to hold it but he's nervous about someone walking in. I reach out to grasp his fingers in mine and he seems to relax after that.

"They were supposed to tell you," I explain, "that I was fine. Didn't they?"

Brendon shakes his head and a piece of dark brown hair trips into his eyes. He really needs a haircut, but God, it looks so good on him. "They told me you were in an accident. I hung up before I heard the rest."

I roll my eyes at his hastiness but offer him a smile. "Remember what I told you a few years back? You can't get rid of me that easily."

He doesn't look like he wants to smile but he does anyway, and I appreciate the effort. He pulls my hand toward his mouth, presses a soft kiss to each of my knuckles as he speaks, "I had to get to you."

We both raise our heads when we hear doctors scrambling down the hallway, barking orders to each other about trauma care. "I hate hospitals," is all I can manage to get out.

Brendon looks up at me, squeezing my hand. "I know," he says, and he does, "I know you do, Ry. But you'll be home in no time."

As if on cue, a doctor knocks on the door. The warning gives us just enough time to pull our entwined hands apart before he enters the room.

"Mr. Ross, good afternoon. Mr. Roscoe."

Brendon chews on his lip, a nervous habit he'd picked up on tour. I ask, "Am I good to go?"

"Our main concern was a possible concussion and how you had cut off oxygen to the brain for a few moments, but it seems like you're okay. You do have a mild concussion, though, so headaches will be common for the next few days. Have someone check on you tonight to make sure you're not sleeping too deeply and keep away from strenuous activity for the rest of the week." I nod. I can do that, no problem. I'm about the thank the man for his advice and see about going home when Brendon cuts in.

"Excuse me? How did he cut off oxygen?"

"Mr. Ross suffered a panic attack at the scene of the accident. He lost consciousness momentarily due to it. That was the priority of the medics who transported him here," he explains, his voice devoid of emotion. As if he doesn't realize what he's said - or who he's said it to. And now his eyes are on me, Brendon's, and he's staring at me with a mix of affection and concern that I haven't seen since we went back to Machias to get my things from that lonely little house. The doctor is speaking again, saying something about a nurse coming in shortly to let me leave. He exits the room and I swear you could hear a pin drop as soon as the door closes.

"You said you were alright," he begins. He's not even blinking. How is it possible to not blink for that long?

"I am," I argue. "It was nothing. Unimportant."

"Don't say that," Brendon says defensively. "It's important. Ryan, you had a panic attack."

"I know. I was there," I say and it earns me a glare from him. "Okay, look-"

He cuts me off. "Is it because of the crash? The bus?"

"Don't, Brendon. You weren't there. You don't know how it happened."

"So it is, then," he decides. "Ryan, I don't know because you won't tell me."

And, well, he's not wrong. He's tried to get me to open up about it a million times. But painful memories are painful memories, and the end of that summer is not one I'd like to dig around in.

He continues on stubbornly. My boy - nothing if not stubborn. "You can't just expect me to accept that you still have issues with something that happened six years ago and you're goddamn fine, Ryan."

"Bren, drop it," I warn, diverting my gaze to the wall in front of me.

"I-" he begins but then stops short when a nurse walks into the room. He gives me a glance that says we're talking about this later and don't even try to fight me on it. The girl hands me a clipboard to fill out. Thank God, it's the discharge papers. I sign some things, check some boxes, and she smiles at me. Brendon's eyes are boring into the side of my head but I refuse to look at him. Childish, I know.

The nurse takes the papers from me and says, "Mr. Ross, you're all good to go." I give her my thanks as Brendon stays silent. When she exits the room, I reach for my jeans on the table next to me and he clears his throat.

"What?" I ask him, slipping into the demin.

He opens his mouth like he wants to start all over again before letting it close. He shakes his head and brushes it off. "Nothing. We can talk about it later. Let's just get you home."

I want to wait for the other shoe to drop, listen for a sharp intake of breath before the inevitable 'and another thing' that's sure to follow. But none of it comes and he just sits there, watching me dress myself. When I'm done and standing, Brendon rises to his feet and wraps his arms around my waist. He presses his head into the crook of my neck and sighs like he's losing the fight. We'll work this out later, right now all I can do is hug him tightly to me. 

“I was so scared,” he repeats into my collarbone. 

“I know, baby, I know. I’m okay though. Really, I am. I’m okay and you’re home,” I say smoothly in an attempt to steady his sure-to-be racing mind. 

“Not just now,” he continues, clearing his throat. Brendon lifts his eyes to match mine. “I mean, I was. But I can’t stop thinking about the crash. When I heard about it, I hated you at the time.”

I want to correct him, tell him that he didn’t hate me. I deserved it, sure. I had broken him and he had broken me. It’s all we seemed to do at the beginning. But he loved me, even back then. I bite my tongue, though, and listen to his words. 

“I was terrified still that something happened to you, something permanent. And I had it in my head that even though we were in this bad place - that you would somehow just show up in my life again. We were meant to be in each other’s lives, I think. And I thought that back then, too. But you were okay and alive and once I knew that, I could heal. I could breathe.”

“Bren,” I interject, trying to pull him to me again. 

“I’m almost done,” he says. “And I never told you but all of those times in New York - during that Winter - you’d fallen asleep before me a few times and it killed me to see how upset you looked even when you were supposed to be resting. It was like this permanent guilt and worry on your face, Ry, and it killed me.” 

I cross my arms stubbornly. He’s too far away to hold anyway, and I want to prove a point that his worrying isn’t necessary. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“You crashed the bus. You hurt the people who were supposed to be your best friends, don’t tell me that has nothing to do with it. Don’t tell me you didn’t dream about it last month.”

I’m speechless. He knew about that? Hell, what else does he know? I told him I couldn’t sleep. I told him I had a song stuck in my head. How did he know?

“I wasn’t asleep,” Brendon explains pointedly. “I heard you talking in your sleep so I listened.” I must look confused and so he elaborates, “I didn’t mean to, Spence please wake up, my arm oh my God, the radio, Brendon…”

“Stop.” I cut him off and only then do I realize how upset he actually looks. So this has been wearing on him more than he lets on. How could I not know? 

He shakes his head and walks out of the room. I follow him and try to ask him to stay, but he just says, “Later. Home.”

-

The cab ride back to our place - “our” is a lovely thing - is long and full of forced silence. I keep trying to sneak glances at him but he won’t have any of it. He just stares out of the window the entire time. When we make it back to the house, he hands the bill to the driver and steps out of the car without a word. 

I meet him in the kitchen, where he’s seated at our dining table. I’ve been eating from a pizza box in the fridge for a week. It’s nice to have him home now. I’ve missed cooking with him. Neither of us are any good at it but we make it work. He clears his throat and gestures to the seat across from him. 

“I don’t want you to think I’m blaming you or trying to make you feel bad,” Brendon says as a precursor. “I just wish you’d open up. You’ve told me about the other things. Why not this?”

I take the seat and wring my hands together in my lap. “I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

He looks taken aback by my words and asks, “Why wouldn’t it bother me? I mean, God, when you were having that dream...I - I wanted to cry. It kills me that you’re obviously hurt by this but you won’t let me help.”

I stay silent for a good minute, not really sure what to say. And he’s right, he has heard about everything else. Well, most of it. He knows about Jackie, about my dad, Machias...he was there for the codeine. Hell, he was there for a lot of it. Why haven’t I opened up to him about it? 

“I,” I try to begin, “I don’t want to talk about it because it’ll ruin how you see me. Those other things, I could make those sound better. Like I wasn’t completely to blame.”

“You haven’t told me because you think I won’t love you anymore?”

“It’s not that I think you’re that, I don’t know, unforgiving or anything. I know you’d love me. I just don’t think you’d love me the same.”

“Well,” he says with that familiar set to his jaw. “I’m going to sit here until you let me in. And we’ll just have to see what happens. I’m not going to stop loving you, Ryan. I could never stop loving you.” I must look awfully doubtful because he then adds, “What did I tell you when Sisky’s book came out? There’s nothing that could change how I feel about you.”

I feel my heart speeding up because here I am, so many years later, willing to give up the thing that’s been on my mind since it happened. I’m going to tell him and he’s going to think I’m insane or suicidal. Or both.

“It was dark and raining. I wasn’t drunk, like I told you. I was completely sober...at least, at first."

His eyes widen in slight surprise but he doesn’t comment. He nods as encouragement for me to continue. And so I do.

“Andy didn’t want to let me drive but I insisted. I’m not even sure why I did. And then Chopin came on the radio and I couldn’t get you out of my head and I - I started drinking. Vodka straight from the flask. And then the lines on the road started getting further and further from the center and I saw headlights but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” 

And I don’t even realize it, but there’s a sort of numbness to my voice even though I feel like my eyes are filling with tears. No, no, none of that. I won’t cry. Brendon, my boy, he’s moving from his place at the opposite side of the table to kneel on the floor in front of me. He pulls my hands from my lap and holds them tightly, waiting for me to keep going. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I repeat. “And then we crashed, I hit a car and I was spiraling and I still couldn’t stop thinking of you...the next thing I knew, I was lying in a bunch of broken glass and I heard yelling. It just kept raining and the radio wouldn’t stop. I wanted to die, I wanted to go to sleep there and never wake up again. Crash. Bang. Smoke.”

Now I can lift my gaze to meet Brendon’s, and he looks like he’s going to be sick. I move my left hand from his grasp to cradle his jaw, reassure him. I’m terrified of what he has to say but my self-loathing and fear can wait. “Baby?”

“I’m fine, I’m good. I just - I’ve never heard your side and it’s...it hurts. But I’m so thankful you told me. I’m so glad you told me, Ryan.” His response is better than what I was expecting. I mean, God, how selfish was I? I hurt everyone just because I was caught up in my own head. Why did I even want to drive in the first place? I think deep down I wanted to self-destruct and that was the most immediate way to do so - how fucking selfish. 

“You don’t think I’m terrible? That I’m the worst person in the world?” I prompt, hoping he won’t hate me. 

“No. No, Ryan, never. Of course not. I think you were in a bad place and you made a mistake,” Brendon says, looking at me wonderingly. Adoringly. How could he still look at me like that after what I told him? 

“I crashed the bus because I was being self-destructive, Brendon. I put all of their lives on the line because of my own problems. I’m selfish.”

“You’re not selfish. You made a mistake,” he repeats. “And I still love you. I love you just the same as I did when we started this conversation.”

"You do?" I ask softly, under my breath. He has to be just saying that, he's putting on a brave face so I don't feel bad. He knows about my fear of ending up all alone - like in Machias. He's saying these words so I won't freak out on him. That's all.

"Does this convince you?" he questions. Before I can ask what he's referring to, Brendon leans up and forward to capture my lips in a kiss. He's soft and gentle about it, nothing like you'd expect when we haven't seen each other in so long. But he just gingerly kisses me and then backs up to look into my eyes. God, he really has a way of looking into you. I knew that already but it catches me by surprise every time. And, well, he's a good actor but not that good.

"I love you," I mumble. I'm still not one to say it outwardly but I try to do everything I can to show him how I feel. 

He raises a brow and says, "How could you not?" Then he gives a small and crooked smile and suddenly the tightness in my chest both goes away and intensifies at the same time. How can he still have that effect on me? I know how, it's because I'm being completely honest when I say I love him.

Brendon stands up and extends a calloused hand toward me. "C'mon, I want to show you something."

I take his hand and he leads me back to our room. It's still kind of surreal, to know that I have him. He's mine, and I'm his. And we live together and do typical disgusting couple-y things together sometimes. And he loves me. That's still the weirdest part even if I'm getting used to the idea.

He guides me to sit on the bed and he reaches for his backpack from tour. I know from experience that the bag is probably seventy-percent candy wrappers and ticket stubs. Brendon digs into the backpack and pulls out what looks like a gift. It's a square box that seems too flat to hold much. He hands the box to me and takes a seat on the bed, folds his legs under himself, and nods expectantly. 

I pull the lid off of the box with care, looking into it curiously. What could he possibly have brought back from such a short leg of the tour? He clears his throat and I pull the creation out of the tissue paper he'd stuffed in with it. It's a blue dreamcatcher with white feathers hanging off of the bottom, and a few green beads around the woven design.

"See, I met this homeless guy when I was running to get a box of snacks for the bus. And I gave him a few dollars but he wouldn't let me leave without taking the dreamcatcher from him," Brendon explains, clearing his throat nervously. "He told me that it's really powerful but only if someone who really loves and cares about you gives it to you. So we have to use it carefully, I guess, because he said if I don't really love the recipient - that's you - then it'll curse you with bad dreams instead." 

I give him a small smile and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek. "I love it," I tell him, and he lights up. "Thank you." 

"I thought it might help with the nightmare, y'know?"

I nod and agree, "You'll help with that, too. I don't have to hide it from you anymore." 

"You never did. Have to hide it, I mean. But I want to do whatever I can to help you," Brendon explains. He wraps an arm around my waist and leans into my side to rest his head on my shoulder.

“Do you know how lucky I am to have you?” I ask him and if I’m honest, I never thought I would exchange words like this with anyone. 

“And I’m lucky to have you,” he responds with a sweet smile. God, he leaves me breathless. 

“What do you say we hang this up? I can find a thumbtack somewhere around here, I’m sure.” 

“There’s something else I want to do first,” Brendon says as he nuzzles my neck, breathes me in. “I know the doctor said nothing strenuous but I hardly think this counts.”

I lean closer and shift so that I can connect my lips to his. After we pull apart, I say, “When have we ever followed rules?”

“Mhm, you’re right,” he agrees, and now he’s giving me those eyes. That look of his that is reserved for me and me alone. I kiss him again and he starts to unbutton my shirt. 

The daylight ends and with it, our night begins. 

-

Four hours later, I’m stepping into a warm shower to wash off the day. And, well, the cum-stains. Brendon is sleeping in our bed, peaceful and oblivious to the world. I can’t wait to join him. After we made love - ah, who am I kidding? It doesn’t suit me. After we fucked, I finally found that thumbtack I was talking about earlier and we hung the dreamcatcher over the headboard of the bed together. 

Honestly, in the past I would have thought a dreamcatcher was the most clichè and ridiculous thing in the world. Now it seems that I can’t stop smiling over it. I’m a changed man - for the better, obviously - and he’s the source of it all. He’s made me a better person. It’s like he said, relationships should be about adding substance. 

I remember after we officially got together and Sisky’s book came out, Brendon drove me out to the place where my dad’s resting eternally. I saw the name of the cemetery and refused to get out of the car. I was stubborn and turned into a bit of an asshole. Meanwhile, Brendon rolled his eyes at my ridiculousness until I actually told him how things had ended with my old man. After that, he insisted that I get closure and held my hand through it all. He saw what I became around my dad even long after he was gone, and he said he wouldn’t let me hold onto that feeling anymore. I think that’s one of the few times I’ve cried in front of him. Anyone, really. 

I did the same for him, of course, when the news of his father’s passing made its way to us. I held him while he stared at the plot of dirt and I kissed him when he needed a distraction later in the day. I may or may not have also directed some pretty nasty whispers in the direction of the grave. But hey, it’s what we do. Brendon once told me that if he could do anything, he’d travel back in time to punch my father in the face. I told him that I’d do the same for him. 

I finish my shower and towel off before brushing my teeth. Really, how odd is it that I would have run from this kind of commitment years ago? Now, all I want to do is go to him. Whisper into his ear about how much I missed him, although, admittedly, the sex was a pretty good indicator. 

I take a moment to assess the boy - man, really - curled up on his side of the bed. Waiting for me. His lips are slightly parted, breathing out contentedly. I climb into the bed, pull him close to me. He finds me in the dark and curls into my chest, his parted lips resting on my neck. Brendon gives a small murmur and I can’t help but smile as I drift off to sleep. 

-


End file.
